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“Dammit, I can take care of myself.” I hadn’t done the best job the other night, but I’d come prepared tonight. I wouldn’t be caught unaware again. “Just leave me alone.”
He turned his near-black eyes on me, rooting me to the spot. “I can’t.”
Ten
My punishment was watching her dance her second set.
The first had been bad enough. She’d seemed so into it, as if stripping came as easily to her as breathing. She’d effortlessly teased the crowd, and they’d responded by tossing fistfuls of money in her cage. The act had become more and more explicit until she’d practically been masturbating for everyone to see—and dammit, as much as I hated it, I’d gotten so hard for her that walking became impossible. About the only thing I’d been capable of was yanking her out of that cage to cover her with my arms.
I hadn’t done it, though I’d been sorely tempted. Then I’d watched her change from a playful temptress into a scared version of the Carly I knew, and I hadn’t been able to get to her fast enough.
All I’d wanted to do was stay by her side and make sure she was okay. But I couldn’t. Even if Marco and the others took me at face value that Carly was mine, that didn’t mean I could reject their kind of gifts. One of them had been Monique, the woman Carly had seen on my lap.
I hadn’t kissed or even barely touched her, but I knew how it looked. I didn’t want to hurt Carly, especially when she was already reeling over being in the club again. But I couldn’t let years of work go down the drain by making an issue out of flirting with a beautiful woman. If I did that, the others would start paying too close attention to me. There was a set way of doing things, and the women with these men understood that faithfulness wasn’t a two-way street.
I didn’t operate that way, but Carly had no reason to know that. I did the bare minimum I could to fit in, and that was all.
She wasn’t supposed to be hurt by who I was with, any more than I was supposed to need to breathe deep to stop myself from cracking the skulls of the assholes near her cage who started getting too grabby about fifteen minutes into her second set. She deflected them with a laugh and a wiggle of her ass, making the rage simmering in my blood turn darker and hotter.
I had to have her again.
She turned toward my side of the club and gripped the cage bars, pushing her bare breasts against them so the taut nipples poked through. The men beneath went wild, tossing money like it was confetti, and she responded by slipping a hand under her dress. She hadn’t removed it entirely this time, just rolled it to the waist, and there was no mistaking what she was mimicking. From this distance and in the darkness of the club, I couldn’t make out the details, but I didn’t need to. I’d been closer last time, and I’d glimpsed her fingers disappearing under her thong. Now she was doing it again, teasing herself and the crowd both, and I couldn’t keep from fisting the hands I’d shoved under my biceps.
Standing in the dark, surrounded by strangers and enemies cloaked as friends, I throbbed for her. Every part of me burned with lust and frustration and concern and anger. This wasn’t for her, but if I tried to insist it, she’d do it just to spite me. I had to let her make the choice on her own.
She didn’t rush from the stage after this set. Nor did she wait for me to catch up with her. She was pissed about Monique, and if we’d been in a regular relationship, I wouldn’t blame her.
What we were in had no definition. I didn’t think even Facebook’s It’s Complicated status began to cover it.
Hell, she’d just bared herself to every man who paid the cover charge, so how could she be mad at me for having a girl on my lap? One I’d barely talked to and barely touched.
When she emerged from the dressing room with her short trenchcoat belted around her waist and her regular ponytail bouncing down her back, I let out a breath. As sexy as she was as Carlotta, this was the woman who slayed me. She’d scrubbed off her lipstick and those nude, puffy lips were more alluring than any coat of paint. That silky reddish-gold hair more beautiful than any femme fatale wig.
I didn’t say any of that. What would be the point, other than confusing this already fucked-up situation with compliments she wouldn’t trust, anyway?
“Are you ready to go?” I asked.
She nodded.
Guess that was all the answer I was going to get.
I’d already made my goodbyes a short while ago to Marco and the others, and since Lorenzo hadn’t shown up tonight, I viewed the evening as a bitter disappointment. That wasn’t even addressing the Carly situation. I wouldn’t be sleeping easy for a while with the images of her pressed against the bars of the cage trapped behind my eyes.
We drove home in silence. No conversation, no music to distract from the tension filling the truck. There was just the sound of her boots squeaking against each other as she fidgeted, and the unnaturally loud beat of my heart filling my head as I watched her curvy thighs separate and press together. Separate and press together, over and over again.
She wasn’t the only one shifting on her seat.
When I should’ve turned off toward her place, I kept going. It hadn’t been my plan. I didn’t have a plan. I’d lived with one for every moment of the last two years, using it as fuel to put one foot in front of the other.
Now, here, with her, there was no blueprint. Nothing to guide me but need.
“Where are we going?” She swallowed audibly. “My sister is expecting me.”
I glanced at the dashboard clock. “At almost three a.m.?”
“She worries.”
That was obvious to anyone with eyes. “Text her, let her know you’re okay, but you won’t be home tonight.”
